The Marshal Makes His Report

by Magdalen Nabb

  ‘Thank God,’ murmured the Marshal as he puffed up the last step and came out into the square, his streaming eyes soothed by the sight of the moonlit white marble of the church opposite, his lungs gulping at the night air. Why anybody would pay to be closed into that hell hole was beyond him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Leo was blustering, uncertain.

  ‘Just wanted a word with you,’ the Marshal said mildly, ‘and there was no chance of having it down there with all that noise. Our car’s here.’

  A squad car tonight, not the Marshal’s little Fiat. Lorenzini got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘You sit in the back with me.’ The Marshal opened the door for him with a gesture so kindly and casual that he might have been showing his wife into a restaurant. The bull-necked, shaven Leo was bristling with tension but he got in as bidden and sat where he was in silence as the Marshal went round and got in beside him.

  ‘Aah . . .’ sighed the Marshal, settling into the corner, ‘warm, even at this hour of night. Drive round a bit, Lorenzini. Get a bit of a breeze in.’ And he rolled down the window.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Leo couldn’t help breaking his self-imposed silence as Lorenzini drove out of the centre and turned, rather too fast for comfort, on to one of the broad tree-lined avenues skirting the edge of the city.

  ‘Nowhere, nowhere at all . . . That’s better. Bit of air.’

  Through the car window the night breeze came heavy with petrol fumes mingled with the scent of flowering trees. The Marshal was, nevertheless, acutely aware of Leo’s mingled smells of strong aftershave and the sweat of fear.

  ‘I expect you know,’ he began, ‘that we have informers here and there in the city—well, everybody knows that, don’t they?’

  ‘I’m not thinking of turning informer.’ Leo sounded almost relieved. He had expected worse than this. The Marshal knew it and bided his time.

  ‘No, no . . . I wasn’t suggesting . . .’

  They neared the end of the brightly lit avenue and followed the stream of traffic veering left on to the river bank, then right over the bridge.

  Perhaps because their crossing the river appeared purposeful, Leo protested again, ‘Where are we going? You’ve no right—’

  ‘To what?’

  Leo had no answer. The Marshal let him wait until they had driven down river and were going back over the last bridge near the park before embarking on his speech.

  ‘Informers . . . these informers I was mentioning, have been saying some strange things about you. Very strange. They’re saying there’s more to the Palazzo Ulderighi business than meets the eye.’

  He paused. Leo made no comment, but the Marshal knew as he looked out the open window at the needles of light shattering the oily blackness of the river that the figure beside him had become rigid with attention.

  ‘More than meets the eye. Now, I’m not usually one to give advice where none’s been asked for, but you . . . you’ve no record. This Tiny, on the other hand, now he’s a very nasty character who’s spent a lot of time inside. He’s experienced, knows what he’s doing— mind, I’m not saying you’re stupid . . .’

  He paused again then to make sure Leo had time to note that he was saying just that.

  ‘Somebody like Tiny, you see, is in a position to haggle where you’re not. You’ve never been inside and want to keep it that way. Everything’s at stake for you, whereas he’s got nothing to lose. If he thinks the game’s up and he’s going to have to do a few more years, it’s in his interest to tell all and name names in return for our reducing charges. You can work out for yourself, I imagine, that you’ll come out as the chief culprit in his version. He’ll have just held your coat, so to speak.’

  They travelled another long avenue round the other side of the city with Leo hunched in sweating silence, the Marshal gazing blandly out of the window and Lorenzini wondering where people who weren’t working nights found to drive to at that hour. The traffic showed no signs of thinning and it wasn’t even Saturday night. The waves of tension he could feel behind his head were such that he didn’t venture to ask where he should go next, so he stayed on the ring roads and before long they were back on the tree-lined avenue and heading again for the river.

  ‘Anybody in his position would do the same, I suppose,’ the Marshal continued thoughtfully.

  Leo’s breathing had become audible. The Marshal pulled himself together. If he didn’t get on with it they’d be driving round till morning. The truth was that he had this habit, infuriating according to Teresa, of ‘going in and out of a coma’ and making half-baked remarks each time he came to. If Teresa found it infuriating, it might well be that Leo found it frightening. He was breathing very heavily. If he got too frightened he might be too paralysed to act.

  ‘So what I’m trying to say is that when somebody’s got a clean record they deserve a break. Your friend Tiny’s done some nasty things in his time. I don’t believe the story he’s telling and I don’t at all care for the way he’s telling it. Letting it be known, accidentally as it were, through informers.’

  It was a very fortunate thing, the Marshal thought as he talked, that none of this was true. It was a lot more difficult when you had to do a patched-up job on bits of truth and bits of invention. The joins tended to show. But he must keep on or he’d lapse into silence again.

  ‘By tomorrow there’ll be a warrant out for his arrest. He’ll be taken to Borgo Ognissanti. I want you to come round there—let’s say eleven o’clock—you know where I mean, do you?’ That was the only moment he couldn’t resist a sidelong glance and caught the glitter of Leo’s tiny eye.

  ‘What’s hearsay can be ignored. When it comes to a written statement . . . you see what I mean. Now, if you’re on the spot—and I’m only asking you to come, I’m not accusing you of anything and it’s not a trick and then you’ll be arrested. If I want to arrest you I know where to find you. If you’re on the spot and looking him in the eye, he’ll not have such an easy time telling a pack of lies, will he? Turn off here, Lorenzini. We’ll take this gentleman back to his club.’

  When they got there, Leo was more than a little disconcerted by their getting out of the car and accompanying him right to the door where Leo’s substitute bouncer looked a lot more surprised to see him return than he had to see him go.

  ‘Enjoy your night off, then.’ The Marshal stood there with Lorenzini beside him and Leo had no option but to go down the stairs towards the throbbing darkness of the disco. He didn’t look back at them. When he had gone through the door at the bottom, the Marshal, too, descended the stairs to speak to the two people behind the cash desk.

  ‘One of you the manager?’

  A man on his feet behind the cashier spoke up.

  ‘I’m the owner.’

  ‘How many people does this place hold officially?’

  ‘I . . . a hundred and fifty, but . . .’

  ‘How many are down there now?’

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘And how many of them have no membership cards?’

  ‘Listen, I know who’s behind all this. We’ve been closed down at least every two months this year and all because I don’t slip an envelope to the right man on the council and the people who do pay up don’t want me surviving—’

  ‘I haven’t counted them,’ the Marshal said, ‘and I haven’t looked at anybody’s membership card.’

  The owner was brought up short. ‘What’s it about, then?’

  ‘Your bouncer, Leo Mori.’

  ‘Leo? He’s all right. What’s he done? How come he went out with you?’

  ‘It may be that when I’ve gone,’ the Marshal said, staring hard first at the owner and then at the cashier, ‘he’ll make a telephone call. Is that the only phone behind you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I want to know who he calls, if that’s possible, and I certainly need to know what he says. Got that?’

  ‘All right. But Leo—’

  ‘Don’t you worry
about Leo. He’s involved in something a lot more serious than letting too many customers into a club. When he’s made the call come outside and tell me. Our car will be out of sight but we’ll see you.’

  They left, parked the car out of sight and settled down to wait. Every now and then the radio crackled and hummed and the two men outside Tiny’s flat reported all quiet.

  ‘I hope I didn’t frighten him too much,’ the Marshal said.

  ‘You frightened me,’ Lorenzini ventured to admit, but the Marshal only gave him a funny look, not understanding. They sat in darkness and silence for some time, Lorenzini wondering if this were the moment to ask just what was going on. He knew from experience that the Marshal didn’t deliberately leave him in the dark. He was just unaware of the fact that his thoughts weren’t audible and would often say, ‘But you knew that’ or ‘Surely I told you.’ He glanced at him now, a still, expressionless bulk. Perhaps he should just wait and see . . .

  A yawn escaped him.

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ the Marshal said, coming to and noticing. ‘Well, it should be over by tonight.’

  ‘What, exactly?’ Lorenzini had seen his chance. ‘I mean, that letter . . . for you it changed everything.’

  ‘Cleared a lot of things up, that letter. Whys and wherefores. Motives.’

  ‘But not whether it really was a suicide.’

  ‘No.’

  Lorenzini waited a bit, but nothing further was forthcoming and the audible sigh he let out as he leaned back in his seat produced no effect.

  It had been a very sober and ill-looking William who had met the Marshal at the doors of the Palazzo Ulderighi earlier. The Marshal himself, after his visit to Neri, had been feeling rather low and at first the sight of William cheered him. Then he looked at him more closely in the gloom.

  ‘Are you all right?

  ‘Yes. No, not really, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been to your office. They said I might find you here.’

  The Marshal tried to glance at his watch. He wanted to be out on Leo’s tail before long. This being his night off he wouldn’t be so easy to watch.

  ‘I won’t keep you long. If you have to get back I’ll go with you. Only too glad to be away from this place.’

  ‘It would be better.’ And a good deal more private without Grillo lurking.

  In the Marshal’s office William sat clutching his tightly rolled umbrella. His face was pale. An angry red spot was turning septic on his chin.

  ‘I imagine I made a fool of myself. I usually do when I’ve had too much to drink.’

  For a moment, the Marshal couldn’t think what he was talking about, then he remembered.

  ‘Ah, well. No harm done. You surely didn’t come round here just to apologize for having had a glass of wine too many?’

  ‘No. I do apologize, though, if I . . . I don’t know how much I said.’

  ‘Very little. You fell asleep. I gathered you were worried about your sister.’

  ‘I didn’t say why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want you to read this.’ He gave the Marshal a letter still in its envelope, addressed to William in Venice and postmarked Florence. The Marshal opened it.

  ‘But this—I’m sorry, it’s in English.’

  ‘I’ve translated it for you on the back of the pages. It took me all afternoon. I didn’t want to interfere. She was going to be upset enough as it was without her having to be involved with the police. I thought if she came back Sunday I could at least talk to her first. I’m sorry. You’re trying to read. I hope you won’t think ill of her because she’s the most honest, good person I’ve ever known. I’m sorry . . .’

  Dear W,

  Tried to phone you this a.m. but you were out or asleep and I think it was just as well—for me, anyway. You could have said ‘I told you so’. Of course it was impossible without first finding another flat. I did try—to find another flat, I mean—but it fell through. So: you can’t leave somebody who won’t be left. You’ve got to have cooperation. We had it out, or tried to, but he could only see it as an either-or menace on my part. At least you know it wasn’t that. I wish I had more experience. Neither of us have—you and me, I mean. Why is that? Anyway, I couldn’t for shame tell any of my girlfriends because of a feeling that they’d laugh at me. I can only tell you the truth, which is that I’m so attached to him in a way I can’t explain that to tolerate the wrench of leaving him, which I theoretically did, I needed huge amounts of support and comfort and a shoulder to cry on and the only person I could turn to for all that was him. Every night since I ‘left him’ he has come down and just held me and let me cry. Nothing else. He won’t ask me for anything else but he won’t leave me either and I know he’s winning. That’s the wrong word, I suppose, but that’s the way it is. I might as well be a tiny child trying to leave its mother. Father, you’d say. I know you think he’s a father substitute but what if that’s what I really need? I mean, crutches are a sort of leg substitute but if you’ve lost your leg you’d better learn to put up with them, or what? I don’t know. In my more desperate moments of attempted flight I made a plan for you and me to go back to England, convince whoever’s in our old house to sell it to us (for peanuts, of course) so we could start again. Start what? The problems are all mixed up together and nobody knows them all except you, so I can’t tell anyone else. I can hear them saying, ‘What can you expect if you have an affair with a married man?’ and the squalor of it makes me shudder.

  It’s not squalid. It’s not an ‘affair’. Does everybody say that? I suppose so, they all think their case is different. I wish I were less ingenuous but I’m afraid it’s a question of character rather than experience. I just know I’ll always be like that. Tried my usual cure of ‘there’s always someone worse off than yourself, etc.’ this morning when you didn’t answer. Went up to see Neri. Each time I see him I’m more touched by his delicacy and amazed by his brain. It flickers like a dying fire. He was translating the ode ‘To Phyllis’ and gave it to me. Tiny intense writing—trails of ivy to bind your shining hair—it reminds him of me, he said. What would he think, feel, if he knew? If we could get away from this house and take him with us. Dickensian nonsense. He is part of this house and dying with it and Buongianni can’t bear to see him. He can’t bear it because he cares. If he didn’t . . .

  If you were here you would make me laugh, no matter what. Is that the English in us? It’s the only thing lacking with Buongianni. Italians don’t laugh at themselves. Poor Neri. This house and his mother will kill him in the end and, even though I know that, I have this feeling that if he were taken away from here he’d die at once. Ever since I’ve lived here I’ve thought about death. I think you’d better come and make me laugh before it’s too late. In the meantime I’ll listen to some Mozart. I’ve booked my ticket for the 12th, the first time in my life I’ve booked a scheduled flight but I want to be able to get back at once if I feel I need to, or stay on and go through with it, in which case I’ll stay three days to get over it and be back Thursday the 24th. I don’t want to go through with it. More than anything I hate the assumption by everybody concerned that it’s automatic. Not once has anyone said, What are you going to do? Even Flavia, who was the one to tell me, only said I could have it done here but that England might be better as Florence being so small it would get out. I don’t care whether it gets out or not. It’s funny, that, I’ve tried to think I should care but I can’t. Who is there who’d care—I mean about me? You, and I’ve told you. Buongianni and I’ve told him. My ‘everybody concerned’ excludes him, you know that. He wants a child. I want it. And the only, the sensible thing to do—according to everybody else, that is, seems to me really squalid. I can’t even write the word, I don’t even think it to myself, so how do I go through with the reality? I don’t believe I will. It’s so negative. It would be a sort of death for me too. Could I manage on my own, though? Not financially. And if he can’t get away from here can you see me just taking money from him? Can you see m
e as a kept woman?

  New paragraph, new thought. I won’t decide about the operation until I’m away from here. Away from this house. When I’ve decided I’ll tell him. I have this feeling that either I’ll come back on Sunday and go through with the whole thing— what can La Ulderighi do when it comes down to it? Or else I’ll give up the child and Buongianni. Either way wait for me. I’ll need you (if only to make me laugh).

  Love,

  Catherine.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ William admitted as the Marshal refolded the letter.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you had any supper?’

  ‘No, no, I haven’t but—’

  ‘Go out and have a decent meal, you look like death warmed up. Shouldn’t you be back in Venice by this time, anyway?’

  ‘The others have gone but I have to wait for Catherine, if she comes . . .’

  ‘You don’t think she will?’

  ‘I’m afraid that if she—if she decided not to have the child, and that’s the way it looks now, doesn’t it?—then she may have given up on the whole thing like she says . . . And if she told him, then maybe that’s why he killed himself. But what if she felt just as badly as he did? You understand that after a thing like that she’d be very depressed and then if she heard . . .’

  ‘Likewise, you’d have heard by now. Surely she’ll be staying with friends—and in any case you expect her back tomorrow.’

  ‘I might ring round a few of her friends in England, anyway.’

  ‘Do,’ the Marshal said, ‘if it will make you feel better—but have that meal first. All right?’

  ‘All right. I will.’ He made an attempt at being his usual witty self. ‘If I were as big as you I wouldn’t get so easily squashed. It’s people tripping over you by accident that gets you down. I’ve no appetite, to be honest. ‘I won’t have any soup today, Oh take the nasty soup away!’